


A League of Her Own

by portrait_inayellowdress



Category: Carmen Sandiego (Cartoon 2019)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Guilt, Introspection, Retelling, Self-Worth Issues, loss of friendship, train scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:33:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25258516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/portrait_inayellowdress/pseuds/portrait_inayellowdress
Summary: Crackle understands. He doesn't like it, but he understands. After all, he's just as disgusted by himself as she is.But he knows that he can do better. He just needs the chance
Relationships: Carmen Sandiego | Black Sheep & Gray | Crackle
Comments: 4
Kudos: 56





	A League of Her Own

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this at 4 am last night because I wasn't happy with how my other work was going so time for some good old fashioned character introspection.

She’d always been in a league of her own. Always. It was one of the first things he’d learnt about her. Black Sheep, tiny, not to be meddled with, and miles above any of them. It made him wonder what she saw in them, why she cared so much if she had no reason to, but he never found it in himself to ask her (Before, he’d suspected it’d been the same reason he had, she was loyal to her team, to her friends. Now, he knows better).

It made sense, after all, she’d been raised with this life, she didn’t know anything else. This, this had been everything she was made for, he saw that, he knew that. This kind of life hadn’t been designed for Black Sheep, Black Sheep had been designed for this kind of life. 

Gray couldn’t say the same. VILE had landed in his path by surprise, of course it had, but it was ultimately by his own hand. He had designed himself, forged himself in wire cuts and currents and lies, years cultivating himself into someone who could glide through his training in the way he had. Into the person people wanted him to be.

Not Gray, he reminds himself, he shouldn’t call himself that anymore. Gray just brings a bitter reminder. That’s a name she’d given him, and he knows he no longer has a right to it. Wherever she was, she’s taken it back. 

It’s Crackle, now.

He doesn’t hate it. He doesn’t. But it doesn’t settle with the simplicity that Gray does. It had taken him so long to choose it his teammates had interceded, but something like a name was too revealing, particularly when it was his to decide. Too much of himself could be inferred from the way he presented himself, every one of his interests, every aesthetic choice was too far, too much, too close. He was written all over every single thing he touched, more exposed than any diary could offer, if only he hadn’t learnt to forge the words. A name, though? That was something he couldn’t fake. That was something that could reveal him.

Crackle, though, was a callback. He heard it in the syllables as much as the meaning, a callback to the energy that had piqued his interest so many years ago, that he swore sometimes ran just beneath his skin, on those nights back home where he couldn’t sleep and it was just quiet enough for him to ruminate. To what he could feel trail through his fingers when he was restless and aching for a thrill. And it was the thing they knew him best for, the Faculty and his teammates and even Black Sheep, that was what drew their attention to him in the first place. And his name was just an iteration of what they already knew, just the face value of his presentation, just the version of himself he’d created for VILE Island. It said both nothing and everything about him. It was perfect. 

All their names were, really. Tigress was just as bitchy and vicious and stock mean girl as Sheena had wanted, El Topo and Le Chevre were just as distinctive yet complementary as the duo in question (an announcement was due any day now, one of them  _ had _ to have made a move by now). He didn’t really get Mime Bomb, and wasn’t going to ask, so all in all that was fitting. And then there was Black Sheep.

Who stood out in the place in which she was so ingrained. Who, even when he swore she had to be the representative of everything VILE stood for, who was the picture perfect model of a thief, had always managed to stand out.

It was like he said, she had been designed for this. 

Which was why she was supposed to sail through every one of those exams, pass with flying colours, and join them as the freshest batch of official VILE operatives. It was just like they planned. The world wasn’t prepared for what the two of them could do. And he knew that she had this in the bag. 

But she hadn’t.

Had that been the beginning of the end? Had that day in Shadowsan’s classroom been the catalyst to Crackle, here, now, just wanting for her to hear him out? A man on a mission, the last resort to get her home. He was the one who knew her best, that’s what they had told him when they first assigned him this mission. Could he bring it within himself to tell them that Black Sheep hadn’t spoken a word to him in three years? Of course not. He couldn’t even reconcile it within himself. That she would no longer stand the sight of him. That she wouldn’t even look at him anymore. He’d wanted to tell her that it wasn’t his fault, he’d wanted to tell her that he was waiting for her, that they had made plans and he was set out to see them through, but he had to think about himself primarily. About his own survival. 

But he knew she wouldn’t have cared. She was always so set in her ways. And deep down, he knows she’s right. Her anger has a place. It  _ was _ his fault.

He knew the moment the Janitors had dragged her away that he’d fucked up. He knew in that moment that he should’ve said something, he should’ve gotten in the way and spoken for her, stood in her defense the same way he had in front of the Faculty. But he couldn’t. He didn’t. The coward that he was, the selfish coward, had lost his loyalty the moment it inconvenienced him. All he was supposed to be, gone. And Black Sheep had seen that, when she looked at him with such betrayal that he didn’t even have the guts to hold her gaze. She had seen him, then, truly and completely.

And she hated him for it. 

He pretended it didn’t hurt as much as it did, Black Sheep’s radio silence. Instead, he just waited for her to graduate, waited for his chance to apologise, to make her understand that he was just as disgusted with himself as she was, but he could fix it, he could make it go away. He knew how to be perfect, how to alter his flaws, and he’d do a better job this time, he promised. He wouldn’t betray her again, he promised.

But then the unthinkable happened. 

Black Sheep had run from all she’d been made for. And Crackle couldn’t help but wonder if it was his fault. If he was the reason she was gone. Could he have done something differently? Oh, who is he kidding, of course he could have. But could he have made her stay? Could he have stopped her from ever wanting to leave in the first place? If he had just been better, would this whole shitstorm never have happened? Was he the cause of  _ all _ of this?

He didn’t sleep as much as he used to. He was lucky if he even slept at all. Most of the time he just tried to grapple with the knowledge that she had seen him, truly and completely. And she’d left him for it. 

And he never quite recovered from that. 

So that’s how Crackle was here, wasn’t it? Staring at the matryoshka dolls she was so insistent he name correctly, that he’d cared for so meticulously for her, for when she came back. He’d come to storing some of his own things in them, the few things he could smuggle out of Sydney, a photograph, two soft pink ribbons, just in case he ever forgot why they were so important . His weapon’s lying across his lap, he’s waiting. He’s ready to leave. It’s nearly time. He breathes, slowly, deeply, trying to fill the hollowness in his ribs with something greater than desperate, lemon yellow hope. He can show her, now, he can try again, he can get it right, this time. He knows where he went wrong, he’ll do better, this time. 

He put the dolls in his bag. Then, on second thought, he put one back on the bedside table. She’d be back for the full set.

He should’ve known better. 

He should’ve known that she was too set in her ways. But he’s begging, can’t she hear that? The train’s nearly in Paris, give it a moment and his hand is forced, there’s nothing he can do but hurt her. Again. So he’s begging, but she can’t hear it. Why won’t he let her hear him? Is he that good at keeping his voice under control? Is he that insistent on not letting her see what he’s actually thinking? Is he  _ that  _ scared of the past repeating itself?

He can’t let her see him too closely. Can’t let her know what he is, not again. He would be disgusted, too. He already is. 

But why won’t she understand? Why can’t she see that he can do better this time! He’s sorry, he screwed up! He knows he screwed up! Just let him rectify his mistake! He can get it right, he won’t screw it up again! He’s spent his entire life learning how to do this, he knows he can get it right! Please, he didn’t mean to drop the mask, please, he can be perfect! He can be perfect! Just give him the chance! He can be exactly what they want! What she wants! He can, just let him! 

Please.

He’s begging her.

Please.

But it’s not enough. He’s not enough. She knows him, and he’s not enough.

It’s desperation, he knows, when he raises his weapon (his mind hurtles back to an incident last year, and he feels sick). He doesn’t want to hurt her, but he wants to win this fight. He has to win this fight. 

He knows that he won’t.

That doesn’t stop him from grabbing the weapon when it’s turned on him, even if he wished that it would fire anyway, and that electricity which always seemed to run beneath his skin would finally be enough to burn it. That would be better, wouldn’t it? To just crumple into a mess of burnt tissue and bone and melted skin, to char away to the smell of burning fat and be so caught up in the pain of it that he doesn’t have to address the fact that she did this so willingly? It would be a respite, a death that painful.

But it doesn’t fire. And he has to accept the fact that he has made his bed, and he must now sleep in it. Doesn’t make it hurt any less. Doesn’t make the blow come down any lighter. And he’s fighting a lost cause. His desperation takes control again.

His desperation cannot save him no more than the rest of him can. It just makes it worse, it just heightens the pain, because now there is nothing in between him and the rest of the world, no protective layer. Nothing that can keep him safe anymore.

So he falls, feels something hard hit his head, for the second time in a row. It makes everything stutter to a halt. There’s a flash of red and his vision blurs. He knows he’s gone.

And even though everything is so quickly fading to black, Gray understands that Black Sheep, that Carmen, had seen him, truly and completely. And she’s hated him for it. And she’s left him for it. And he knows why.

He’ll do better next time. 

Please. 


End file.
